Salt and Brine
by provocative envy
Summary: ONE-SHOT: "Can I get a small, hot, quad quarter-sweet tres leches latte, ristretto, with three pumps of vanilla and a drizzle of cinnamon?" Edmond Lestrange asks, bouncing on the balls of his feet. She clenches her jaw. "And you, Tom?" she says, ballpoint pen poised over a to-go cup. HG/TR.


**Salt & Brine**

_By: Provocative Envy_

###

**Author's Note**: This was supposed to be a 1000 word coffee shop AU prompt fill for someone on Tumblr, but it got away from me and turned into…this. It still mostly takes place in a coffee shop, but there is 100% more creepy dangerous Tom than was asked for, and about 75% fewer campy crack ship shenanigans. Because of Tomione reasons. Oops.

There is a moderately huge twist at the end of this story, though, which maybe makes up for how far off it is from the prompt. If you would like to discuss, in detail, the nature of this particular twist, please join me on Tumblr because I WANT TO DISCUSS THIS TWIST WITH LITERALLY EVERYONE.

Enjoy!

###

_**(September 22)**_

It's half past three in the afternoon.

The shop is empty, canopies of sultry, late-summer sun filtering in through the partially tinted windows; the large chalkboard easel that usually sits on the sidewalk is propped against the far wall, a hasty pastel drawing of red and yellow leaves smudged across its front. A Sarah McLaughlin song is warbling out of the overhead speakers, tinny and sad, and the streaky orange dye from the newly-stocked Pumpkin Patch latte mix is floating through the air, melding seamlessly with the pungent scent of stale coffee grounds and burnt espresso beans.

Lavender hasn't shown up for her afternoon shift, and Hermione is leaning against the waxed redwood counter, irritably toying with the heavy canvas strings of her apron. She drums her fingers against the touchpad of the cash register as she watches the clock. Her pinky catches on the key that reads _OPEN_, and the drawer shoots backwards with a clang.

Almost simultaneously, the bell above the door jingles.

She glances up, startled.

"—fucking _tradition_, Tom," a slender, brown-haired young man is muttering to his much taller companion. "Christ. We didn't _all_ have depressing orphanage childhoods, you know—"

"—occurred to you that I made _plans _for Halloween night, you unbelievable _imbecile_?" the taller man snaps, side-stepping a patchwork gingham armchair; a violet-black rose is pinned to the polka-dot cream silk of his pocket square, round velvet petals brushing against the indent of his lapel as he angrily gesticulates.

"—celebrate the fucking _majesty _of the seasons changing—" the first man continues, as if he hadn't been interrupted.

"—invite you, Edmond, can't even hire a proper gardener—" the second man growls as they stop in front of the register.

"—his business card at _this_ stupid fucking shop, don't blame me—"

She frowns.

"Can I help you?" she eventually asks, clearing her throat.

The silence is abrupt.

A Sara Bareilles ballad begins to play, lilting piano chords and a breathy vibrato echoing against the rafters.

"Absolutely," the second man replies, turning to face her. He is—handsome. He squints at her nametag. "Hermione, is it?"

She narrows her eyes.

"Can I help you?" she repeats, more loudly.

He appraises her with obvious amusement—his teeth are gleaming in the light, and his lips are red and soft with saliva, and his grin is _sharp_, nuanced and lethal and just the slightest bit uneven, and she is suddenly reminded of a serrated knife, of gorgeous rippling steel and ragged edges—

"I'll have a large, iced, half-caff unsweetened mocha ice storm with two add shots, no whipped cream, and extra caramel sauce," the first man announces.

She heaves a sigh.

###

_She spends an entire day dissecting the cardiovascular system of her assigned cadaver—Myrtle, female, twenty-four years old, cause of death undetermined._

_She cuts through the thoracic wall, detaches anterior muscles from the sternum, inspects the vertebrae and sketches a diagram of the spider-thin nerves, winding blue-grey vessels and spongy layers of off-pink fatty tissue; her scalpel is a solid weight against her powdered latex gloves, and each incision she makes is precise, __**pristine**__,____textbook-perfect down to the millimeter._

"_You have a steady hand," her adviser says, nodding approvingly._

_Hermione's answering smile is hidden behind her surgical mask._

###

_**(September 30)**_

"Can I get a small, hot, quad quarter-sweet _tres leches_ latte, _ristretto_, with three pumps of vanilla and a drizzle of cinnamon?" Edmond Lestrange asks, bouncing on the balls of his feet.

She clenches her jaw.

"And you, Tom?" she says, ballpoint pen poised over a to-go cup.

Tom crosses his arms over his chest and shrugs his shoulders; the movement jostles his unbuttoned black jacket, exposing the beige linen vest beneath—a faded, rust-colored stain mars the bottom left corner of the fabric. It looks like blood.

"—extra hot," Tom is saying, voice crisp.

She jerks in surprise, pen scratching across the cardboard in a jagged black line.

"Sorry," she says, shaking her head. "What was that?"

He pauses, quirking his lips. Next to him, Edmond is tapping at the screen of his iPhone, oblivious to their conversation; an acoustic rendition of a Britney Spears song is buzzing beneath the din of explosive teenaged laughter coming from a table in the back of the shop.

"Long day?" he inquires.

"One of my employees quit without giving notice," she replies shortly, thinking of the three furious voicemails she'd made sure to leave for Lavender. "It's been a long _week_."

He hums, seemingly sympathetic.

"Perhaps he'll turn up soon with a viable excuse," he says, reaching for a tiny tin of chocolate mints displayed on the counter.

"_She_," she corrects automatically.

His expression doesn't change.

"Right," he says, holding up the mints. "I'll take these, too. Oh, and Hermione—it was a large Americano. My order."

She fights off the curious urge to fidget.

"Extra hot, right?" she clarifies.

He smirks, gaze lingering on her mouth, and tucks a graceful hand into his trouser pocket.

"Right," Tom says again.

###

_Lavender's parents file a missing person's report on October first._

_The detective who calls Hermione sounds tired—his questions are perfunctory, his demeanor is professional, and his tone is defeated._

"_She's one of several young girls who've gone missing over the past year," he says, coughing into the plastic receiver of his phone, crinkled bursts of static erupting in her ears. "Sometimes we find the bodies after a few months, sometimes we don't—there isn't a pattern, really, except their names—and they've all been killed…differently."_

_She scuffs the toe of her sensible brown ballet flats against the bamboo floor of the shop and stares at the row of pumpkins she's assembled on the coffee bar._

"_Lavender, though—" she starts._

"_Of course," the detective hurries to say, "Lavender could very well still turn up. We're all quite optimistic."_

_She chews the tip of her tongue._

"_What is the pattern that you mentioned?" she asks, fiddling with the locking mechanism on a cheap orange carving knife. "About the—the names."_

_She hears the telltale clacking of a computer keyboard, followed by the mechanical whir and hiss of a printer._

"_What was—oh," he replies, distracted. "This has all been reported on, of course, it isn't confidential, but—the, ah, the first names are all flowers. Myrtle, Lily, Lavender—I think there was another one, too; a Rose."_

_She swallows._

###

_**(October 8)**_

Edmond trips over a knotted pine barstool and falls into a swath of decorative nylon spider web that's stretched out across the community bulletin board.

"God, I can't take you _anywhere_, can I?" Tom observes flatly, pursing his lips.

Edmond glowers as he picks small rubber spiders out of his hair and shuffles over to the counter.

"Could I just get a medium, iced, nonfat half-and-half hazelnut macchiato with sugar-free syrup, four pumps of amaretto, and a tablespoon of whipped cream? Light on the ice, please," he adds, peeling a neon pink flyer advertising toddler yoga off of his shoulder with a wince.

"And for you?" Hermione asks, turning to Tom; he's dressed casually for once, in a slate grey t-shirt, bronze aviator sunglasses hanging from his v-neck collar, and a pair of medium-wash, slim-fitting jeans. An expensive titanium watch is buckled loosely around his right wrist.

"Tea," he decides, rubbing his chin. "The—ah, the dragonfruit blend, if you still have it—with the chai. And a croissant, too—with raspberry jam."

She wrinkles her nose.

"How exotic," she drawls.

"I work for the government," he retorts.

She swipes his credit card—platinum, American Express, _Member Since '95_ emblazoned across the bottom—and lifts a neatly-groomed eyebrow.

"Riveting," she says dryly.

He pulls a marble green Montblac fountain pen out of his back pocket; the beds of his fingernails are encrusted in dirt, cuticles shredded and dark brown. She freezes.

"Are you in college, then?" he asks, signing his receipt with a flourish. "You're awfully difficult to impress—I can only assume it's all those lofty notions of higher education."

She huffs out a tense laugh.

"Medical school," she says, begrudgingly. "Although that wasn't what I initially—"

"Tom!" Edmond interrupts, brandishing a silicon travel mug from the opposite end of the coffee bar. "Can I get this? Rodolphus threw my Grumpy Cat mug off the freeway overpass when I wouldn't let him watch _Frozen _on the way to karate, so I—"

"I have never cared any less about one of your stories, Edmond, _Christ_," Tom swears, rifling through his wallet for a twenty-dollar bill. "Sorry for him, could you—"

"Not a problem," she replies easily, already counting his change. "So—"

"Tom!" Edmond calls out. "Can we get Five Guys for dinner? I had a daydream about the Cajun seasoning—"

Tom massages the side of his head and exhales impatiently.

"Hermione—I would very much like to continue talking with you," he says, voice low and deep. She shivers. "Perhaps one night this week…?"

She bites her lip.

###

_Tom kisses like he's hungry for her—open mouthed and aggressive, breath hot and tongue clever, hands slipping beneath the crocheted lace hem of her skirt and kneading, squeezing, __**memorizing**__—she pants and he groans and she is fucking __**dizzy **__with it, with him, with the arch of her spine as he drags his teeth down her neck, her wildly fluttering jugular artery pulsing like a metronome in triple-time, one two three, fast and fast and __**faster**__—he sucks a blistering blue-green bruise into her clavicle, teases and twists the purple satin bow sewn into the top of her underwear, and he murmurs her name, muffled against her skin, flushed and salty with sweat, and she presses her thighs together, needs the friction needs the pressure needs the sweet slick slide of his fingers against and around and __**inside**__ damp virgin-white cotton and the heel of his palm and the circular confident grind of his knuckles and she needs she needs she __**needs**__ the slow purposeful roll of his hips and the thick line of his cock and she is drifting she is dumbstruck she is liquid and she is lost and she is __**wrecked**__—_

"_Now," he whispers._

_The world stops and the air stills and gravity tilts, whirls, suspends—_

_She gasps._

_She __**breaks**__._

###

_**(October 31)**_

Tom is alone.

"No Edmond today?" she asks, balancing two saucers of Earl Grey cappuccino.

"He's taking his nephews trick-or-treating," he responds with a grimace. "They're poorly behaved little mongrels at their best—I can only imagine what a surplus of sugar and toy weaponry will do to them."

She snorts and adjusts the chain of her necklace—a sterling silver Tiffany locket she hasn't opened for years—so that the clasp is hidden beneath her hair. Her movements are meticulous.

"A better question might be what that surplus will do to _Edmond_," she says wryly.

He chuckles, flattening his palm over the vibrant pink petunia boutonniere cascading across the lapel of his suit—sleek charcoal pinstripe with a delicate ivory lawn shirt.

"Shit," he scoffs, bracing his elbows on the counter and leaning forward. "I just realized—I never remembered to ask you again, about what you studied as an undergrad."

She carefully measures out a cup of almond milk and pours it into a steamer.

"I studied botany, actually," she replies with a rueful smile.

His eyes widen, almost imperceptibly, and a soft-core electronic cover of an Aerosmith song begins to play.

"Oh?"

She uncaps a bottle of agave syrup.

"Yes," she says, tossing a wire-mesh frothing wand into the commercial-grade steel sink. "My specialty was flowers."

###

_Hermione keeps a well-maintained garden on her apartment patio._

_She grows hemlock and aconite in small ceramic pots next to cedar boxes full of basil and thyme and rosemary—she trims the waxy green leaves off of a belladonna bush, collects the succulent ripe berries and stores them in mason jars above canisters of roasted garlic and olive oil. She coaxes and cultivates the sub-tropical, cyanide-rich cassava root, nurtures a periwinkle-blue Indian pea plant rife with deadly neurotoxins—she has crab's eye seeds and desert-rose tree sap, ricin and atropine, Caladium blossoms and Brugmansia shrubs—_

_She can poison and she can paralyze. She can disguise flavors, scents, textures—she can use a syringe, an eyedropper, an atomizer. She can maim and she can mutilate and she can __**murder**__._

_She is dangerous._

###

_**(November 2)**_

"—arrested your gardener for those murders," Edmond says with a disbelieving scoff. "He was weird, yeah, but he wasn't _weird_, you know?"

Tom sniffs and sits down on a distressed, burgundy leather chesterfield.

"Wait, what happened?" Hermione interjects, wiping her hands with a mint green dishtowel.

It's a quarter till four. The shop is otherwise empty.

"I stumbled upon some rather disturbing evidence that my gardener was involved in the disappearances of all those girls," Tom tells her, slouching into his seat. "I couldn't very well ignore it, so I turned him in to the authorities."

The overhead speakers audibly click as the track switches from a raspy Rob Thomas to a crooning Celine Dion.

"How horrible," Hermione manages to say, posture rigid.

"_Scary_, more like," Edmond shudders.

"Can I—do you want anything, Edmond? We have a gingerbread latte that isn't on the menu yet," she offers, leaning her hip against the armrest of a navy corduroy loveseat.

An antique German cuckoo clock perched on the end table emits a discordant squawk as it chimes the hour, rusty metal doors straining to fly open.

She catches Tom's gaze—searching, unreadable, reflecting red from a nearby scarlet lampshade.

"_Yes_," Edmond replies promptly, with feeling. "I'll have a large coffee—black."

She blinks.

###

_Tom Riddle is a conundrum._

_Hermione wants to take him apart, piece by piece by piece, wants to dismantle his skeleton and bundle up his bones like they're matchsticks, flimsy and flammable, wants to hold a magnifying glass to the chambers of his heart and watch them flood and flare like blooming tubes of flower pollen—she wants to fill a petri dish with his blood, crimson and warm and viscous, and slide it under a high-powered microscope, just to see the platelets congeal and the white cells slow-dance with the red—_

_She wants to know him, inside and out._

_She wants to __**solve**__ him._

###

**Author's Note**: I BASICALLY TRIPPED AND FELL ON MY KEYBOARD AND THIS HAPPENED OKAY I WILL NOT APOLOGIZE

###


End file.
